“What!” spluttered the Sultan. “You again!”
Now the Sultan was really mad. He was beside himself with fury. He called his servants again. “Look! That infernal bird is back. I know what I’ll do this time. I know. We’ll grab him and throw him into the beehive. Let the bees sting him.” And the Sultan’s servants rushed at the little red rooster and caught him.
“Aha!” cried the exultant Sultan. “We’ve got you now. You’ve crowed your very last doodle-doo.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Sultana,” said the little red rooster. But the Sultan took him by the neck and threw him into the beehive.
The little red rooster wasn’t at all frightened by the bees. He knew what to do with bees. He wasn’t worried. As the bees buzzed angrily all around him he simply said to himself: “Come, my empty stomach. Come, my empty stomach and eat up all the bees.”
And that’s just what he did. He ate up all the bees, every last one of them.
Back in the palace, the Sultan was rubbing his hands with glee. He thought for sure he had seen the last of the little red rooster. But he hadn’t, had he?
He was happily tucking into his lunch of roast peacock, when suddenly he heard this:
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana! Give me back my diamond button.” The little red rooster was back on the window ledge.
“What!” spluttered the Sultan, his mouth full of peacock. “You again!”
Like a crazed camel, he was, like a vengeful vulture, like a jibbering jackal. He stamped and stormed about the palace, shouting and screaming at his servants.
“Who will rid me of this infernal bird?” he cried. “Tell me. Tell me how to do it, or I’ll lop off your heads. I will! I will!”
And the servants knew he meant it too. So naturally they all thought about how they could get rid of the little red rooster. They thought very hard, very hard indeed.
“Hang him by the neck from the pomegranate tree, my lord Sultan,” said one. But the Sultan shook his head.
“Lop off his head, my lord Sultan,” said another.
“It’s no good,” wailed the Sultan. “He’d only run around without it.” And he sat down in deep despair on his cushions.
But then, just as he was sitting down, he heard the cushions sighing and groaning underneath him. He was squashing them flat!
“That’s it!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll sit on him and flatten him. I’ll squash him. I’ll squish him. I’ll obsquatulate him!”
From the window ledge the little red rooster heard it all and smiled inside himself.
The Sultan’s servants rushed at the little red rooster and caught him.
“Aha!” cried the exultant Sultan. “We’ve got you now. You’ve crowed your very last doodle-doo.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Sultana,” said the little red rooster. But the Sultan took the little red rooster by the neck, stuffed him down the back of his pantaloons and then sat down on him, hard, very hard indeed.
The little red rooster wasn’t at all frightened of being obsquatulated. He knew what to do about that. He wasn’t worried. He simply said to himself: “Come, my full-up stomach. Come, my full-up stomach, let out all the bees and sting the Sultan’s bottom.”
And were those bees angry? I should say so. And did they all sting the great and mighty Sultan’s bottom? I should say so. There was plenty of room in those capacious pantaloons for every bee to sting wherever he wanted. And remember, that great and mighty Sultan had a very large, very round bottom, probably the biggest bottom the world had ever seen!
Did the great fat Sultan jump up and down? I should say so. Did he screech and yowl and whimper? I should say so. And did the little red rooster hop out of those great pantaloons and fly off safe and sound? Of course he did.
“Aiee! Ow! Youch! Oosh, ooh!” cried the Sultan, as he sat with his stinging bottom dunked in a bath of ice-cold water.
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana!” cried the little red rooster. “Now, will you let me have back my diamond button?”
“All right, all right,” said the Sultan. “I give in. Anything, anything to get you out of my sight. Take him up to my room and give him his confounded diamond button. It’s in my treasure chest.”
So the Sultan’s servants took the little red rooster up to the Sultan’s bedchamber, and gave him the diamond button from out of the Sultan’s treasure chest.
“Now go,” they cried. “Fly away! Shoo! You’ve got what you came for. Go, before you get us into any more trouble.”
“I’m going. I’m going,” replied the little red rooster, the diamond button in his beak. But he was in no hurry to go, for something had caught his eye. He could not believe his luck. The Sultan’s treasure chest! The servants had left it open! So he flew away only as far as the window ledge, and he waited there till all the servants had left. Then he flew down and hopped across the room and up on to the treasure chest. Emeralds, rubies, diamonds, pearls, sapphires – the finest jewels in the entire world.
“Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound,” said the little red rooster to himself. “Come, my empty stomach and gobble down the Sultan’s jewels.”
And that’s just what he did. He gobbled down all the Sultan’s jewels, every last one of them. Then out he flew, out of the window and out over the palace walls, which was not at all easy, because he was rather heavy now. He had to waddle all the rest of the way back home, rattling as he went.
As he neared the farm, he happened to meet up with his friends again, the wriggling worms and the singing cicadas and the burrowing beetles. So, of course, he just had to tell them all about his great adventures in the Sultan’s palace. He was only halfway through his story when the poor old woman, who had been looking high and low for him, spied him at last. She came scuttling along the farm track.
“Where have you been, Little Red Rooster?” she cried. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“Ah, mistress mine,” replied the little red rooster. “Never in your life will you ever have to worry again. And never will we have to go hungry again, either. Look what I have for you.”
And he said to himself: “Come, my full-up stomach. Come, my full-up stomach and give up all your jewels.”
Out they poured on to the ground, all of them, all the Sultan’s jewels, until there was a great sparkling pile of them at the poor old woman’s feet.
Only, she wasn’t poor any more, was she?
It took the breath right out of her. She sat down with a bump, still trying to believe her eyes.
“Goodness me!” she cried. “Goodness me!”
And she was good too, goodness itself. Do you know what she did? She gave those jewels to all her poor friends in the countryside round about, just enough for each of them so that no one had too much. She kept for herself all she needed, and no more. But, of course, the little red rooster got to keep his diamond button.
Just you try and take it from him!
here was once a lion who never hunted any more because he was too old and too tired; who didn’t roar any more because he was too sad. So he spent all day and every day in his cave feeling very bored and very hungry. All the animals who passed by would stop and tease him. “Who’s roaring now?” they’d chant.
One morning he woke up and saw a young man sitting reading a book at the mouth of his cave.
“What are you reading?” asked Lion.
“Some stories,” replied the young man. “I’ve just written a story about you; about an old lion who won’t leave his cave because he feels he’s too old. He feels he’s not what he was, a bit slow, a bit stupid.”
“What happens to him?” asked Lion.
“He meets a young man one day called Aesop, a storyteller, who comes to his cave and reads him all the fables he has written. And the lion loves the stories so much he wants to read them again himself.”
“What happens next?” asked Lion.
“That’s up to you,” said Aesop. And leaving him the book, he went
on his way.
Sitting at the mouth of his cave the next morning Lion roared and roared so loud that all the animals heard and came running to the cave at once.
“My friends,” said Lion, “come into my cave and I will read you the best stories ever written.” And they did. All the animals marvelled at Lion and how clever he was.
“This lion may be old and slow,” they thought, “but this lion is not stupid.”
Story after story he read, and after each one explained the moral of the story. All afternoon, all evening, all night, he read, so that one by one the animals dropped off to sleep. By morning he’d finished all of Aesop’s fables and he’d also eaten up all his sleeping listeners too.
A STORY IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST.
BUT WATCH OUT YOU DON’T GO TO SLEEP!
n a small island way out in the middle of a silver lake there once lived a sad young man. He had been unhappy ever since he was a child, when his mother had died and left him alone in the world, still quite unable to talk.
But he was sad for another reason too. He had grown up into a giant of a man, very big, very strong and very frightening. Because of this, no one liked to go near him, and so he had no friends at all.
Every day he rowed across the silver lake to work in the village of Ballyloch, where he thatched all the houses and barns and hayricks with barley straw. But, however hard he worked, the villagers were always unkind. If ever he opened his mouth to try to talk they simply laughed at him. “He caws like a crow,” they jeered. “He croaks like a frog.”
They called him the Beastman of Ballyloch.
“The Beastman’s coming,” the villagers would cry. “Look out, look out, Mister Ugly’s about!” Time and again they warned their children to keep away from him. “He’s mad. He’s bad,” they said. “He’ll gobble you up for his supper. Don’t go near him.”
Every evening after work, the Beastman would row back to his island home where he lived on his own. But he was never quite alone, for around him lived all the wild creatures he loved – squirrels, otters, ducks, herons, kingfishers – and dearest of all, his beloved swans. To every one of them he was neither a Beastman nor ugly, but a true and trusted friend.
Early one spring morning the Beastman looked out over the lake and saw there was already someone out fishing. It was a young woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat. And then she began to sing. The Beastman had never heard anything so beautiful.
But suddenly, as he watched, the boat tipped, and with a cry the girl was over the side, vanishing at once under the water. The Beastman did not think twice. He ran down to the lake and plunged in. He swam out to where her straw hat still floated, and dived down into the murky depths beneath. It was icy cold in the water, but the Beastman searched and searched until at last he found her, lying in amongst the weeds at the bottom of the lake.
Gathering her in his arms he swam up to the surface and back to his island. He did all he could to bring her back to life, but still she did not move and she did not breathe. The Beastman held his face in his hands and wept.
“Why are you crying?” She was speaking! She was alive after all! “You saved me,” she said.
He wanted so much to talk, to tell her how happy he was, but all that came out was a hideous croaking.
She smiled at him. “Back home in the village, we call you the Beastman of Ballyloch. But you’re not a Beastman, are you? All I see in your eyes is gentleness.”
She took his hand. “My name is Miranda,” she told him, “and I shall be your friend for ever.”
All that day Miranda rested by the fire, while the Beastman made the best potato soup she had ever tasted. As she slept, he looked down at her and knew that he loved her more than life itself.
That evening, as they rowed back over the silver lake, she could see that he was sad. “I’ll come back again tomorrow,” she promised. “Don’t worry.”
But someone had seen them out together in the Beastman’s boat. By the time she got home, her father knew about it, and he was furious. “You dare to disobey me! Haven’t I told you never, ever, to go near that monster?”
Miranda tried to explain how the Beastman had saved her life, but her father was too angry to listen. He took her upstairs and locked her in her room.
That same evening, there came to the village a stranger, a smiling stranger with twinkling eyes. He was carrying a load of sacks on the back of his cart.
“What do you want most in all the world?” he asked the villagers.
“To be rich, of course,” they cried.
“And so you shall be, my friends, but only if you buy my magic stardust. All you have to do is sprinkle my magic stardust on your lake. Believe me, within one day you will be catching fish as big as whales.”
And they believed every word he told them. With his twinkling eyes he charmed them, and in no time at all the villagers had bought all the stardust he had.
Next morning, early, they were out in their fishing boats sprinkling the stardust on the water. By evening the silver lake rang with shouts of joy. The stardust was doing its magic! They were catching the biggest, fattest fish they had ever seen.
But the Beastman was becoming more and more troubled. His swans and all his wild creatures seemed suddenly bewildered and frightened, as if they knew that something terrible was about to happen. And still Miranda had not come back to him as she had promised.
That night, thunder rumbled and rolled about the mountains. Lightning crackled, and the lake howled all around him in the wind. The Beastman stood on the shore of his island, waiting and watching for Miranda. But she did not come and she did not come.
By morning, the storm had passed. The Beastman was still standing there, still hoping to see Miranda’s boat. But there was no boat. Instead, in the first light of dawn, he saw to his horror that his beautiful lake was no longer silver, but a ghastly green all over.
Then, from across the lake he heard the sound of wailing. He soon saw why. Ballyloch was in ruins. Every roof of every house and barn had been blown off by the storm, and the straw was strewn about the streets. The Beastman crouched down and ran his hand through the water. Slime, green slime.
An otter ran along the shore, green from head to tail. Everywhere the fish lay dead or dying. Worst of all, his beloved swans were choking as they dipped their necks into the water to drink.
That was when the Beastman noticed a bright circle of clear silver water, and floating in the middle of it, was Miranda’s straw hat. He waded out and plucked it from the water. Then he saw that underneath, it was covered in thick green slime.
At once, the Beastman knew what had to be done. But he needed help. Miranda. Miranda would help him.
He leapt into his boat and rowed over to Ballyloch. As he hurried through the village streets, no one noticed him. “Our lake is dying,” wailed the villagers. “It’s the smiling stranger’s fault! Where is he?” But the smiling stranger had long since taken his money and vanished.
From her bedroom window, Miranda saw the Beastman and called down to him. In no time, he had unlocked her door and set her free.
“Look at the lake!” she cried. “What are we to do?”
At first, Miranda could make no sense of the Beastman’s frantic croaking. Only when he held out her straw hat, and showed her the green slime underneath, did she understand what he was trying to tell her.
At once, Miranda gathered the villagers together.
“Do you want to save our beautiful silver lake?” she asked them. “And all our wild creatures?”
“Yes!” they cried. So Miranda told them exactly what the Beastman wanted them to do. No one argued, for they knew this was their only hope.
Soon, everyone was busy picking up the fallen thatch from the streets. All day they worked, spreading it out, weaving it into great straw mats. Their backs ached, their hands were raw; but on they worked until at last the job was done. Then, at dusk, the fishing boats towed the mats out on to the lake and left them floating there. “Now
all we can do is wait and hope,” said Miranda.
That night, out on the island, Miranda and the Beastman gathered together his beloved swans and all the wild creatures they could find, and cleaned them until their feathers and their fur were bright and shining again.
When they had finished, Miranda taught the Beastman to say her name. Soon, he could say “Manda”, which sounded, she told him, just as good as Miranda, if not better. She taught him many more words that night, but his favourite was “Manda”. He kept saying it over and over, until they both fell asleep.
Next morning they woke to the sound of whooping and cheering and laughing. They could hardly believe their eyes …
Every fishing boat in Ballyloch was out on the lake, and heading towards the island. And the lake was silver again, dancing in the light of the early morning sun. The green had entirely vanished.
And the straw had done its work, just as they had hoped it would. Overhead flew the Beastman’s beloved swans, white again, as white as snow, their wings singing in the air.
The people of Ballyloch were overjoyed. As for Miranda’s father, he begged his daughter’s forgiveness, and the Beastman’s too, for the way he had been treated for so many years.
“We know now,” he said, “how wise you are and kind, for you knew the secret of the barley straw and saved us from ourselves. For as long as men tell stories, they will tell of you – and of Miranda’s marvellous hat!”
Everyone hung garlands of flowers around the Beastman’s neck, and Miranda’s too. All day long they danced and sang and feasted.
As the villagers’ boats left the island that evening, the sun went down over the silver lake. Miranda’s hand stole into his.
“You are no longer the Beastman of Ballyloch,” she whispered. “You are my Gentle Giant.”
“And you are my Manda,” said the Gentle Giant. “My Manda.”
And it’s quite true about straw and water.
Lay a mat of straw on a murky green pond for a while,
Of Lions and Unicorns Page 33
